


Beneath Lavender Clouds

by i_n_o_n



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: AU, Branjie, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Lesbian AU, Playing Hard to Get, RuPaul's Drag Race AU, Slow Burn, boss brooke, branjie au, branjie lesbian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 07:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19194691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_n_o_n/pseuds/i_n_o_n
Summary: Brooke inherits a château from her uncle, and goes to France with the intention of selling it so she can get back to her job on Wall Street. But a surprise appearance from a fashion student studying abroad throws a wrench in her plans - a wrench that not only plows through her professional facade, but makes her question everything she's ever known.Lesbian AU





	Beneath Lavender Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> My first Branjie story.
> 
> This is very, very AU. As in, nothing is true.  
> The characters listed will appear at some point during the story, and more may come along if I see fitting.  
> I'm aiming for a slow burn here, but we'll see what happens.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my story.

**A good year**

 

_Château la Canorgue_

_Provence, France_

_1997_

 

_The air is heavy, the hazy Mediterranean atmosphere thick across the grounds of her uncle Bastien’s château. The sun has begun its descent into the bosom of lavender fields, their scent carrying so far that you’d smell them long before you’d ever see them._

 

_All that manages to be heard above the chirping cicadas is the cheerful tones of Richard Anthony’s “Itsy Bitsy Petit Bikini.”_

 

_She scoots forwards in her seat. The faded sunflower yellow cushion beneath her thighs barely separates her from the delicate, intricate wiring of the garden chair. She wiggles around and traces a lazy finger across the bend metal, following the lines as they swirl into a wobbly heart, warped by countless nights outside in the winter winds._

 

_A sigh. She hears her uncle rummaging around inside the house. It’s the characteristic chime of bottles knocking against one another that always seems to accompany the man. It’s appears as if he’s doing it on purpose, the noises lending themselves to the music’s erratic rhythm. Then again, he may very well be doing it intentionally. He swears he can tell by the sound of the bottles colliding, exactly which liquid is contained within. She believes him._

 

_Across from her, lying idle in an old, porcelain ashtray, is the last third of a cigar that Bastien has been working on since they began their game of chess following dinner. The last few pieces are now scattered in the center of the marble table, the checkerboard in shades of grey and burgundy amidst the solid black. She grabs the cigar determinedly, and places it between her lips, fingers curled around it in the way she had so often watched her uncle do it._

 

_“Brooke Lynn,” he calls from the kitchen, “ready to concede?”_

 

_She pulls the cigar from her lips and fights the urge to cough at the taste that is left in her mouth. A second glance to the board. A smirk._

 

_“No!” she answers. She grabs a hold of her queen, sliding it across the board in one swift move. The chafing of the piece against the stone is much too loud for her liking, and her eyes fly to the door. She’s half expecting Bastien to be standing there with a disapproving look on his wrinkled features. She counts herself lucky he isn’t._

 

_“_ _Sur une plage il y avait une belle fille,” he sings not a second later, wiggling his hips as he joins her on the terrace. He has a bottle of wine in each hand, clutching the necks of the bottles firmly as he shakes them to the beat of the song. “Qui avait peur d'aller prendre son bain.”_

 

_He puts the bottles down on the table and reaches a hand out to her. She accepts gracefully, and he pulls her to her feet, her chair nearly falling behind her by the sheer force of her rising._

 

_She nearly loses her footing as he begins to spin her around, singing in her ear with every stumbling step._

 

_His voice is rough and dry, and nowhere near the smooth tenor that Richard Anthony possesses. He continues to sing, and as the first notes of the chorus comes scratching through the speaker that he should have replaced decades ago, she joins in._

 

_“Son petit itsy bitsy teenie weenie tout petit petit bikini,” it’s a broken parody of the french language, but it is the first sentence he ever taught her, and she is a beaming mess as they sing together. “Qu'elle mettait pour la première fois. Un itsy bitsy teenie weenie tout petit petit bikini. Un bikini rouge et jaune à petit pois!”_

 

_She feels as if she is breaking through a wall of warm air like the blowing of a ceiling fan as he twirls her away from his body. All the while, his large, sweaty palm serves as an anchor. The flip flops she’s wearing are far too large for her, a battered pair she had been gifted by the winemaker’s wife during her fourth summer at the château._

 

_A scratch sounds from the speakers as the song transitions. “Aranjuez” streams from them this time, the tones much softer than those of the previous song, the melody dramatic and the guitar mesmerizing._

 

_He pulls her back in, and guides her hand to his waist, laying his other hand on top of hers as he raises it in front of them._

 

_“You know, Brooke Lynn,” he muses, voice barely audible above the music. “Being able to lead your partner in dance is not much different from being able to lead a business.”_

 

_She merely nods, unsure what this has to do with her. As far as she knows, the man is supposed to lead_ her _in dance, not the other way around. Her mother has told her that one of the highlights of her life was being lead across the dancefloor by her father at their wedding, and Brooke should be thrilled she will get that same experience some day. Besides, she wants to be a firefighter anyways._

 

_“It’s a matter of reading the movements of who you’re dancing - or dealing - with,” he continues, tapping Brooke’s spine. She straightens immediately. “You need to take charge of the situation, make them do as_ you _want them to.”_

 

_“Isn’t that rude?” she asks, and he chuckles. She loves it when he does that, the deep rumble of his laughter making his entire being shake with mirth._

 

_“Not at all, darling,” he adjust her elbow, and she can feel it when he relinquishes the complete control to her. “Trick is to never let them know. It should all feel natural, like they’re as powerful as you are.”_

 

_It does feel odd, to be the one leading her middle aged uncle across the grey, stone sun that is carved into the tiles of the terrace. He follows her every step, and grins every time she pushes forward despite his attempts to push back._

 

_“But they aren’t?” she thinks she knows the answer._

 

_“They very rarely are,” he says. “And those who are; those are the ones who you need to befriend. At the very least, until you can beat them.”_

 

_“What if I can’t ever beat them?”_

 

_“Then I didn’t teach you well enough.”_

 

_The song comes to an end, and he stops them with a gentle tug on her hand. She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she doesn’t say anything at all. He is, after all, the man who taught her the value of a comfortable silence._

 

_She sits back down, and he proudly places the two bottles of wines in front of her. She reads the labels with an intensity that mimics the one he himself favours when choosing his wine._

 

_“I figured with it being your last night here with me, we’d bring out something extra special,” he explains._

 

_“Bandol,” she says, placing her finger on top of the bottle on the left._

 

_“Excellent choice, m’lady.”_

 

_He puts the other bottle to the side and pulls out his trusty corkscrew. It’s the one thing Brooke can always count on him carrying in his pocket. He’d once been stopped in airport security and given a thorough patting down because he’d tried to bring it onboard the plane._

 

_“Tempier Bandol, 1969,” he says as he cuts of the seal. “The kind of wine that can bring even the greatest of kings to their knees.”_

 

_He places the bottle between his knees and begins to unscrew the cork, gritting his teeth. “I once saw an american boxer brought to his knees by a single glass - it may have been one Cassius Clay, but he doesn’t like me to talk about it. Perhaps it has to do with my knee colliding squarely with his testicles too.”_

 

_Brooke laughs. Her mother once told her to take all of Bastien’s stories with more than just a single grain of salt, but even if it isn’t always the whole truth, it is always entertaining._

 

_“Now, what were we talking about before?” he asks, pouring himself a glass of the thick, red wine._

 

_“You said the importance of a good blue suit can never be overstated.”_

 

_“Quite right!” he pushes his hat further up, nearly revealing his fleeting hairline. “A blue suit is essential to any leader’s wardrobe. The only thing more important than the suit, is the man who makes it. The name of a good tailor is never to be revealed, despite any and all kinds of torture or threat of bodily harm. Don’t you go forgetting that, Brooke Lynn.”_

 

_She’s never worn a suit in her life, but she does like to snuggle into his suit jackets on the coolest of summer nights. Her mother likes for her to wear dresses and do up her hair, and even though she does sometimes feel a little awkward with her boyish figure in frilly skirts and puffy sleeves, she’ll put up with it to pacify the woman._

 

_He pours half a glass for her, and grabs the water decanter to dilute the strong taste. He’s added no more than a few drops when Brooke reaches out to stop him. She’s aware that he’d usually not allow her to have so much wine, but it is her last night there and it goes without saying that it needs to be celebrated properly._

 

_“Where were we?” he asks, placing her glass in front of her. “Whose turn is it?”_

 

_“Mine.”_

 

_She watches as he eyes the chess board sceptically, his eyes resting on her queen. He lifts one bushy eyebrow, but says nothing._

 

_“Have I ever told you what the best part of making wine is?” he asks instead, and she feels like she’s dodged a bullet._

 

_“You don’t,” she shrugs. “Mr. Miller makes the wine.”_

 

_“Brooke Lynn, my dear,” he shakes his head, accompanies the movement with the clicking of his tongue. “It is always the_ landowner _who makes the wine. No matter the fact that all he does is keep a watchful eye from the window of his study.”_

 

_“No, I enjoy making wine because it quite simply is incapable of lying. It doesn’t matter when you pluck the fruit, or how you press the grapes,” he raises his glass to her. “It will always convey nothing but the entire truth to you, with every sip.”_

 

_They share a silent sip, Brooke mindful of not letting her face scrunch up as the liquid hits her tongue. Bastien looks much too happy, she thinks, and she has to question whether they’re really drinking the same thing. Her glass happens to be bitter and dense on her taste buds, but he looks much more delighted - as if he was happily sipping away on a capri sun._

 

_“Now you know why I love wine so much,” he sets his glass back on the table and folds his hands in front of him._

 

_“Have you anything you’d like to tell me, Brooke Lynn?” he asks. He smiles when she nods. “Spit it out then.”_

 

_She leans forward in her seat, letting her forearms rest against the cool stone. With a single finger, she pushes her rook forward, coming to a stop in front of his king._

 

_“Checkmate.”_

 

* * *

  
  


_40 Wall Street, New York City_

_New York, USA_

_2019_

 

The air around her is plagued by tension, a hundred or so eyes hungrily scouring the large screens that cover most of the walls. Heads nod along as the graph present there moves further and further upwards, the numbers rising with it.

 

She spares a glance to her watch, then looks on as the number on the screen crosses the 113.04 mark.

 

Her coffee is bitter - black, just as she likes it. She takes a deliberate sip, then presses her finger against the _on_ button of her in-ear headset. She leaves the cup on one of the many desks that litter the floor as she moves past it, walking in an intricate pattern until she is standing before the most prominent screen in the room.

 

“Morning, lemmings,” she says, smirking as their keyboards silence and the room echoes with their returning greetings. “What we’re about to do may land us in newspapers nationwide. Don’t let this scare you.”

 

She brushes at the non-existent dust on the pocket of her pinstriped suit with a flippant hand, then gestures at the screen. “Today, we are going to make more money than most of you would’ve ever thought possible.”

 

An audible cheer resonates throughout the rows upon rows of desks, employees shaking hands and exchanging high fives. She hopes for the life of her that they won’t be celebrating prematurely.

 

The screen reads at 115.10.

 

A few desks away, a slender brunette rises from her seat, panic clear in her eyes. “That’s 115.10, boss. We should move now.”

 

“Not yet, envy,” she holds up her hand, and the woman slinks back into her seat.

 

“The secret, lemmings, to earning unfathomable riches; is the same as that of comedy,” she continues her explanation. “Timing.”

 

She strolls to the back of the room once more and accepts a fresh cup of coffee from her secretary, Shuga. Within seconds, the woman from before is by her side.

 

“Miss Hytes,” she speaks, wringing her hands together. “Why do you keep calling me _envy_?”

 

“Because your entire being drips with desire to be in my spot, miss Scarlet,” at her side, Shuga lets out a snort of laughter. “And as your boss and genetic superior, I can call you whatever I want.”

 

Brooke smiles, the insincerity pulling at her lips. Scarlet looks nothing short of mortified as she retreats back to her desk. The buzzing of a phone brings Brooke back from her brief moment of entertainment, and Shuga’s voice cuts through the noise of the room.

 

“Brooke Lynn Hytes phone, who’s this?” she pops the piece of gum that she’s been chewing on for the better part of an hour. “Alright, one minute.”

 

She holds her hand across the microphone and lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s Natalie.”

 

The grimace that Brooke pulls at that is entirely genuine, and her eyes are pleading as she looks back at Shuga, moving her hand in front of her neck in a cutting motion.

 

“I’m sorry, Natalie. Miss Hytes isn’t here right now,” she raises her brows at Brooke. “Her and her fiancée are at the cake tasting today.”

 

A solid thumbs up from Brooke accompanies the sound of Natalie’s suddenly raised voice.

 

“Would you like me to leave a message for you, doll?” Shuga powers through, and Brooke grins as she hears the response power through the tiny phone speakers. “Alright. Have a good day, babe.”

 

“Brilliant work, Shuga. Remind me to give you a raise sometime in the next ten years.”

 

On her left, Scarlet begins counting the numbers out loud as they appear on the screen. “115.90… 116… 116.20. People are buying!”

 

Brooke watches patiently, resting her thumb on her bottom lip as she watches the graph curve - and just before it bends, she nods towards Scarlet. 116.50.

 

“Sell.”

 

The room erupts, Scarlet barking out the order. The shrill of her voice ensures that anyone who may not have heard Brooke speak herself, have certainly caught on by now. “Sell it all! Keep selling it!”

 

People are on their feet, shouting into phones and tapping furiously at their keyboards as the sales come flooding in.

 

115.87.

 

Brooke looks at her watch, then briefly glances out the window. If only she could see into the headquarters of Raven Securities right now, she’s sure she’d be thoroughly entertained. Shuga stands tall by her side, chuckling as Brooke calmly drinks her coffee amidst the chaos.

 

114.03.

 

“Isn’t this a serious breach of the gentlemen's agreement?” Shuga muses, crossing her arms with an amused smile.

 

“A gentlemen’s agreement presupposes there’s a gentleman involved.”

 

112.00.

 

“They should bury you face down, Brooke. Because that’s the way you’re going.”

 

She smirks and steps forward, gesturing for Scarlet to pause. The younger woman looks anxious as ever, phone clutched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white with the force.

 

111.90.

 

“Buy.”

 

“Buy it all back you fucks!” Scarlet screams, waving her free hand in the air. There’s only a split second pause, and then everyone of Brooke’s dubiously named _lemmings_ are buying back every stock they can get their hands on.

 

113.40.

 

The price skyrockets.

 

115.20.

 

Brooke’s coffee has never tasted sweeter.

 

* * *

  


“For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow!”

 

Brooke stands amidst her delighted employees, a plastic cup of champagne between her fingers. She bows exaggeratedly as they salute her, raising their drinks on each beat of the song.

 

“For she’s a jolly good fellow,” they pause, cups high to the sky. “Which nobody can deny!”

 

Cheers fill the room, and Brooke accepts a high five from an incredibly sweaty man, wiping her hand on her pants immediately.

 

“I can,” Shuga grins, toasting Brooke in a manner that is much more private, the two standing face to face.

 

“But you wouldn’t,” Brooke winks.

 

As the shouting subsides she jumps onto the nearest chair.

 

“Well done today, lemmings!” she smirks. “We all made a spectacular amount of money.”

 

Cheers.

 

“Today we proved to not only ourselves, but to every single one of our competitors,” she extends her hand, “that winning isn’t everything-”

 

“-it’s the only thing!”

  
  


_1214 Fifth Avenue, New York City_

_New York, USA_

_2019_

 

The rain falls heavily on the windows of the cab, the gloom soundtrack to the evening financial news.

 

_In a surprising move this afternoon, R. F. Lafferty and Co. unloaded $5 billion in sell orders on the stock market. Prices crashed to 111.90, before the company bought it all back in an unprecedented move, making over $177 million in the process._

 

Brooke leans back in her seat, folding her arms behind her head.

 

_The companies rivals are claiming foul play, and there are talks of an inquiry to follow._

 

She scoffs. They’re welcome to try and find something on her. Chances are they never will.

 

The stack of bills she hands the cab driver is slightly bigger than what she’d usually surrender, but the day has been kind to her. Besides, her mind is weary after a night of celebrating, and she lacks the energy to look at any more numbers. He thanks her, and she locks herself into her apartment building.

 

Elevator rides when intoxicated are an experience she revels in - she truly feels weightless. The glass walls allow her to look out into the early morning, and it’s as if she is flying over the rooftops as she ascends further and further.

 

She has the sense to open her mailbox before she collapses into bed, and she pours herself a glass of whiskey from the decanter in her hall as she looks over the letters.

 

The first five she chucks into the recycling bin in the kitchen, but the last one catches her attention.

 

_CABINET AUZET_

_Notaire associé_ _  
_ _2, Rue des Remparts_

_84160 Lourmarin, France_

 

Grabbing a knife from her drawer, she cuts the envelope open. Inside, she finds a note that’s typed in a dubious form of english. She can only just make out the contents due to her hazy state of mind.

 

She downs the rest of her whiskey in one gulp.

 

* * *

  


_40 Wall Street, New York City_

_New York, USA_

_2019_

 

“You ready for the fanmail?” Scarlet asks, walking into Brooke’s office with her eyes glued to the bundle of papers in her hands.

 

“Bring it on, sunshine,” Brooke turns the page of her newspaper, twirling her chair around so she can face Scarlet fully.

 

“Bitch. Bitch. Burn in hell,” the younger woman begins to read, gauging Brooke’s reactions carefully.

 

It’s nothing less than what Brooke would expect. She had known prior to yesterday that her actions would earn her a secure spot in the collective mind of every stock broker out there. A spot of rage and jealousy and extreme distaste.

 

“ _Die_ ,” Scarlet reads on. Then she smiles. “Congratulations, you’re my fucking hero, bitch.”

 

Brooke looks up from her paper and raises a brow. “Who’s that from?”

 

“Your lawyer.”

 

“Brooke, babe,” Shuga struts into the room, a notepad clutched between her fingers. “I just got off the phone with Auzet, the notaire handling your uncle’s estate.”

 

“Is she the one who sent me the letter?” she licks her finger, flips another page.

 

“Obviously,” the rolling of Shuga’s eyes is palpable. “So, apparently this Bastien guy hasn’t updated his will in over 20 years. Typical frog fashion, if you ask me.”

 

“Right, so what’s the game plan?” Brooke keeps her eyes glued to the words before her, even as they muddle together. “Is there a reading of the will or can I just download it or something?”

 

“ _No_ , that’s the whole point, honey. There is no legal will.”

 

Finally, Brooke puts the paper down, looking into Shuga’s eyes with interest.

 

“You’re his closest living relative, so you get the whole shabang.”

 

“What?” Brooke chuckles. “His clothes and his Richard Anthony LPs?”

 

“The _house_ , you idiot. You get to keep his house.”

 

“The old farmhouse, with the grapes and the vines and everything?” Brooke presses her fingertips together, leaning forward. Shuga nods.

 

“Sounds like something you could get a good price on,” Scarlet notes, and Brooke fixes her with a scathing look. She has the decency to look chastised.

 

“Anyway,” Shuga carries on without even sparing a glance in Scarlet’s direction. “I got you a plane ticket, and arranged a meeting with the notaire for tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“You want me to go to France?” Brooke laughs at the thought, although her nostrils tingle at the memory of the sweet lavender feels and her fingers itch to feel the warm walls of the house again.

 

“No, I want you to go to the far east and stay there,” Shuga pats her on the shoulder as she stands up. “But this will have to do for now.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, miss Hytes,” Scarlet smiles widely, waving her hand nonchalantly. “We’ll take care of the place while you’re gone, absolutely no problems.”

 

“Right.”

 

Brooke rubs her hands together, slowly rising from her chair.

 

“Scarlet,” she says, trying her very best to soften her voice suitably. “Why don’t you go and do something useful? I know! Go find a mutt, and throw it off the balcony!”

 

Shuga trails behind her as they retreat into Shuga’s own office, connected with glass walls to Brooke’s own. Shuga sits down and starts pulling up flight information, and Brooke perches herself on the other’s desk.

 

“Tell me something, Brooke,” Shuga speaks. Her eyes are soft around the corner, and Brooke isn’t sure she likes where this is going. “Did you love him?”

 

“Yes, I did,” Brooke takes to looking at her nails.

 

“When was the last time you spoke?”

 

“A long time ago,” she hates feeling like she’s about to get choked up. Her nails find the soft skin between her index finger and her thumb, and she presses the sensitive spot roughly.

 

“How come?” Shuga’s typing away, but Brooke’s delayed response causes her to look up. Her hands still.

 

“I don’t know, Shuga,” Brooke chuckles, releasing her hand from her own grasp. “Maybe it’s because I became a total bitch?”

 

She doesn’t catch the sad smile on Shuga’s lips as she turns her back on her, squaring her shoulders and exhaling forcefully.

 

* * *

  


_Gotham Bar and Grill_

_12 East 12th Street, New York City_ _  
_ _New York, USA_

_2019_

 

Brooke arrives at Gotham’s at eight in the evening, entering the restaurant in long strides. She has her hands deep in her coat pockets, thumbs sticking out as she greets the doorman with a tilt of the head.

 

“Miss Hytes!”

 

As soon as she’s inside, she is welcomed with a firm handshake, the manager of the place smiling widely up at her. She towers over him in her heels, and she smirks at the way his body is vibrating - she’s reminded of a puppy she had as a child.

 

“Mr. Csencsitz,” she says, hoping to convey some warmth in her voice. He has always treated her well, and he is one of the many reasons she so favors Gotham’s above all other restaurants in the city.

 

“Miss Versace has been awaiting you.”

 

The phrasing is as used up and cliché as anything Brooke has ever heard, and she fights the embarrassing urge to snicker. As Csencsitz leads her by the bar and towards the back end of the dining room, she keeps her professional composure and politely respond to those who congratulate her on her way.

 

At the end of the bar she spots a familiar face, and places a tender kiss to the cheek of the brunette standing there with a tall glass of champagne in her hand.

 

“Lucy,” she smiles. Her eyes catch on the girl’s companion. A tall blonde, who looks considerably pissed. She hurries to her side, and presses a matching kiss to her cheek. “Anna. Didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

 

Never one to let herself be caught in awkward situations, she moves on, following Csencsitz far away from the bar. She thanks him as they come to a stop by a table in the very back, before slouching into her chair with a sigh that rattles her chest.

 

Ariel Versace is perched on her chair, swirling her wine around within her glass as her eyes connect squarely with the waitress’s chest. Her lips are moving, spouting words about warmth and spice, and deep red colouration. “A mature bordeaux, definitely.”

 

The waitress, who is holding onto a bottle of wine so that the label is hidden from view, smirks. “It’s a burgundy.”

 

She’s gone before Ariel even comes close to a witty retort.

 

“Maybe if you hadn’t been staring at her chest, you’d have made the right guess, Ari,” Brooke smirks, and Ariel swats at her arm.

 

“I knew it was a burgundy,” she grumbles.

 

“Right,” Brooke nods solemnly, a smile threatening to break as she tries to keep her lips tight. “Can we keep our minds off the double frontage with a view and onto the French real estate? What’d you say it’s worth?”

 

“Damn, girl,” Ariel sinks back into her seat. “Not even a day since your dear old uncle died, and all you can think of is money?”

 

“That very same uncle is the man who taught me the importance of having an extra fuck-you million in the bank.”

 

“Alright, cool. Well, tell me about the place. I’m gonna need something to pass onto the real estate agent.”

 

“Right,” Brooke is momentarily distracted by the waitress’s return, her cleavage inches from her face as she places a glass in front of Brooke. “It’s, uhm… It’s been a while.”

 

She shakes her head. This is not the time for distractions, no matter how enticing they may seem.

 

“A dozen or so bedrooms, a pool, a tennis court…” she draws lazy circles around the rim of her glass with her left hand as she speaks. “Twelve or thirteen hectares, a vineyard.”

 

“That’s a fucking _château_ , Brooke!”

 

“What’s one of those go for these days?”

 

“Well, we’re obviously in the _fuck-you_ area, maybe several,” Ariel answers confidently, brows raised to the edge of her auburn hair.

 

“Really?” Brooke lifts her glass in a mock toast. “God bless Bastien.”

 

“Patron saint of fuckloads of cash,” Ariel raises her glass, and the thin crystal sends a satisfying ring into the air as it connects.

 

“I’m not cutting my commission, though,” she warns, and Brooke laughs heartily.

 

“If you did,” she grins, “I’d never have hired you in the first place.”

 

* * *

  


_????_

_Provence, France_

_2019_

 

Brooke isn’t a showboat. But when the young man at the car rental service adjacent to the airport had informed her that the only cars they had left were a Smart Fortwo in zebra print and a bright red Porsche Panamera - the choice had seemed obvious. If the french countryside is not the place to turn on the radio and try to make the engine roar above the music: which place is?

 

Lord knows a Smart Fortwo won’t make much noise, but the Porsche. It purrs like a cat, the vibrations moving through the driver’s seat and into Brooke’s body. With the smooth voice of Charles Aznavour spilling from the speakers like a finely aged wine, she floors the gas, hand moving the gear shift with trained confidence.

 

The combination of the roaring engine and the song drowns out the voice of her GPS, until she finally lets off the gas.

 

_Tourner autour_

 

“Tourner autour?” Brooke huffs, squinting at the miniscule screen. “What do you mean, _tourner autour_?”

 

She slows down, finally taking in her surroundings.

 

Surrounding her are tall acacia trees, intercepted with wild bushes, dotted with white flowers. It’s quite beautiful, but it’s also completely unfamiliar to her. Everything is blooming, hiding the fields she knows to be on the other side of the overgrown patches.

 

_Tourner autour_

 

A groan, then a furious slap. She rips the GPS from its holder in the window and throws it onto the passenger seat.

 

“You told me to go this way, you’re not going to tell me to turn back around now,” she says into the thin air. Then her fingers find the touch screen in the middle of the console panel and she presses the shining phone icon, glad she has the number she’s searching for on speed dial.

 

“Hey there, honey,” Shuga drawls through the car speakers. “You get into problems already? Need nana Shuga to bail you out?”

 

“Very funny, Shuga,” Brooke grumbles, speeding up once more. “The GPS is acting up, so there’s no way I’ll make the meeting with the notaire this afternoon.”

 

“So, you woke me up at five in the morning, so I can cancel a meeting you have in _four hours_?” Shuga groans audibly, and Brooke grimaces.

 

“...Yes?”

 

“You better thank god you pay me the way you do, honey,” her secretary sighs, and Brooke grins. “I’ll let them know.”

 

“You’re a doll, Shuga,” Brooke says, nothing but praise in her voice. Shuga happens to be one of the few people that aren’t on her bad side - until she starts rummaging in her personal life, of course. “I’ll see you in a few days. Let’s hope I won’t have to call you again.”

 

“Wait,” Shuga cuts through. “You said your GPS wasn’t working. How are you going to find the place?”

 

“Hold on,” Brooke bites her lip as she scouts into the distance.

 

By the side of the road, not too far ahead, there’s a figure, waving its arm frantically as she comes ever closer. She slows down, coming to a complete stop.

 

“Hello?” Shuga calls out.

 

Brooke rolls down the passenger side window, taking in the girl who seemingly appeared out of the blue. She has long, curly dark hair and is dressed in a gorgeous white sundress, her scuffed knees on display. The cut of the dress is deep enough to allow Brooke a look at quite a generous amount of her perky chest. Brooke smirks.

 

“Bonjour,” she says, hoping her accent doesn’t shine through too powerfully.

 

“Finalement! Salut! J'ai besoin d'un tour en ville, une chienne a volé mon vélo alors je suis coincée ici pendant des heures!” the girl launches into a passionate rant. “Je transpire mes seins ici. Aide une fille à sortir pour que je ne me laisse pas dévorer par les loups ou la merde.”

 

There’s not much of a story to be found within her words, and Brooke is a hundred percent sure that her grammar is completely off. She does, however, manage to make out just enough to know that she’s not in the company of some tentative little maiden in distress. She hears “ _bitch_ ,” “ _breasts_ ,” and “ _shit_ ,” all thrown around quite carelessly within the tangled mess of french.

 

“ _Hello?_ Brooke, are you there?” Shuga attempts once more, only for Brooke to end the call with the push of a button.

 

“Uhm,” she begins, trying to school her features. “Désolé, mon français n'est pas très bon. Parlez vous anglais?”

 

A shit-eating grin splits the girl’s face in half. She lifts an arm and points excitedly at Brooke, as if there’s anyone around to catch the attention of.

 

“You’re american!” she squeals, and Brooke raises her perfectly plucked brows in surprise. The last thing she expected to find in the middle of nowhere Provence, was a gorgeous american girl.

 

“Canadian, actually,” she corrects the girl, unable to help herself. It’s an important distinction, what with the reputation that the americans carry abroad.

 

“Even fucking better, bitch!” the girl is back at it, her english as colourful as her french. “That means you _have_ to give me a ride.”

 

“What makes you think I have to?” Brooke doesn’t think her brows can move any higher now. “What if I just stopped so I could give you hope before leaving you in a cloud of dust?”

 

“Duh,” she rolls her eyes. “You’re canadians. Canadians are _known_ to be the most polite motherfuckers on the planet.”

 

“Not sure you calling me, and _my_ _entire people_ , motherfuckers, is helping your case.”

 

“Tou-fucking-ché, blondie,” the girl chews on her bottom lip. “There was a compliment in there too, though.”

 

“I suppose you’re not wrong about that,” Brooke smirks. “I’m not convinced yet, though.”

 

“What, I gotta suck your dick or something? I know you don’t need my money, rolling up in a ride like this.”

 

“How about we start with a name, hm?”

 

The girls leans in through the window, pursing her lips as she looks Brooke over. “Alright. Only cause you look hella rich though.”

 

Brooke chuckles, briefly looking down her attire. She’s wearing comfortable cotton chinos - and she’s damn sure there’s no way the girl can tell that they’re Armani - topped with a simple, floral Prada button up. No visible logos though. So either this girl is guessing, or she has a keen eye for fashion.

 

“So?” she asks.

 

“Vanessa,” the girls smiles, extending her hand. “Vanessa Mateo.”

 

Never one to resist a bit of flirting, Brooke lightly grabs Vanessa’s hand, placing a chaste kiss on the back of it. She hopes that it’s a blush she sees on Vanessa’s chest and cheeks, but it could very well be the ever-rising sun. At least, now Vanessa can refuse the ride if she feels uncomfortable. Good to get that settled before she’s gotten herself into the car.

 

“Brooke Lynn Hytes,” she says, releasing Vanessa’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Vanessa.”

 

“Hmm,” Vanessa hums, and Brooke’s about to ask her what’s up, when she continues. “Most rich people don’t bother trying to be charming, too. It’s too cheesy, by the way. And I don’t trust any bitch who drives a Porsche.”

 

“Wise decision, Vanessa,” Brooke nods her head slowly, pressing the console to unlock the doors. It gives a resounding pop throughout the quiet air. “I guess I can give you a ride. Where do you need to go?”

 

“Bonnieux.”

 

A smirk grows from Brooke’s stomach until it’s firmly in place on her lips. “Perfect. Then I only have one condition.”

 

Vanessa stops in the middle of opening the door, bowing down to look at Brooke. “What’s that?”

 

“I need you to show me the way to _Château la Canorgue_ first.”

 

“Fine,” Vanessa rolls her eyes as she slips into the passenger seat, grabbing the GPS and throwing it onto the backseat without missing a beat. “But no funny business.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave some feedback. All constructive criticism is welcome, I want to get better.
> 
> i_n_o_n


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